I spotted her: a glimpse of the back of her head as she disappeared round a display of baked beans. Her dark hair swayed and was gone. I saw the red denim material of one of her sneakers, its heel tilted. ‘Hey, Phoebe!’ I called, but she didn’t come back. I went to the aisle and looked along it. Phoebe was turning right at the end. This time I thought there was a man with her. The flap of trousers, a flash of a dark shoe. I ran to the end, looked left and right. Nothing. I went to the next aisle. She was at the far end, turning left. I ran. There was no way Phoebe could outrun me. I was only two metres behind her. At the end I looked right and left. Nothing. Then I saw the back of her head, the tilt of red denim sneaker, as she turned the corner. Was she holding someone’s hand? ‘PHOEBE!’ I yelled. ‘YOU CAN’T RUN THAT FAST.’ She didn’t come back.
I moved as if in a maze. Now the supermarket was deserted, except for Phoebe and me and the faintest hint of another presence. Someone, something dark. The aisles stretched and twisted and went on forever. I ran headlong through each one, and each time caught a glimpse of hair, the tilt of a sneaker. I never got closer.
And then a sound. I stopped halfway down one aisle. Baked beans were on all of the shelves. Thousands, millions of cans, stretching to infinity. The sound coalesced. A hum. It made my heart leap in my chest.
I jolted upright in bed. My phone was buzzing. Not a call. A text message notification. I fumbled with the screen. Unknown caller. I pressed to bring up the message, but there was no message as such to bring up.
I had received a video.
CHAPTER 19
Phoebe sat in front of a completely blank wall. It was obviously brickwork – I could see the classical outline of staggered individual bricks – but it had been painted an off-white. She wasn’t wearing her school uniform, but something I’d never seen before. A kind of green smock with a bright bow at the neckline. Definitely not something she would have chosen to wear. It was too girly for her taste. Clearly, the person who’d taken her had picked this. It was exactly the kind of dress that someone who didn’t know kids would have chosen. It spoke of conventional fashion, a sense of what little girls should look like. Questions rose like bile in my throat. Had she been forced to change into this from her school uniform? Most importantly, had she been given privacy while she struggled into this monstrosity? I wanted to shut my eyes to keep the appalling alternative at bay.
Phoebe was cross-legged on a plain concrete floor. She wasn’t wearing socks or shoes. In her lap she held a newspaper. It was local and it was today’s. She held it up to the camera and it was as if she was embarrassed doing it. Then she folded it neatly – of course she did – and placed it at her side. The image swam and rippled but I didn’t have the time or inclination to wipe my eyes. She smiled at me – a strange, lopsided smile – and a sob stuck in my throat. Then she spoke.
‘Hi, Jamie. I’m fine and not hurt in any way, so please don’t worry. Say hi to Mum and Dad and Summer. Tell them I miss them and I love them and I can’t wait to get back home.’ Her eyes shifted briefly to a point just off centre of the lens. She nodded. ‘See you soon, Jamie. Love you. Bye.’ And then she froze, the image went a pale shade of grey and the ‘play’ icon appeared over her face.
I stumbled down the stairs, the phone in my hand. The day had been crazy. It was about to get crazier.
Summer had gone off somewhere with Spider but Mum and Dad were home. Dad sat on the sofa and wore the befuddled expression that was becoming his habitual mask. Mum paced behind him. It was difficult to resist the urge to put both hands on her shoulders and force her to stand still for a moment. I thought if I did, she might crumple, as if someone had pulled her plug. Maybe she needed that.
I took Mum into the kitchen and showed her the video. She watched it twice and glanced towards the shelf where the whisky used to be kept. Then we took my phone in to Dad. He gazed at the screen in silence. His eyes filled with tears and he reached out at the end and touched the frozen image of his daughter. It was unbearable. I was overflowing. I had no resources to stem the flood and wouldn’t have used them anyway. In the end, I simply put my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t react, didn’t say anything, just kept his finger on Phoebe’s face. I left him with the phone.
Mum called Gardner and he and Detective Moss turned up within half an hour. They watched the video – it took some time to get the phone from Dad’s grasp – and downloaded it onto a laptop. Then Moss took a detailed statement from me about my conversation with the kidnapper earlier that day. I sat at the kitchen table and combed my memory. Then I re-combed it. Mum and Gardner, off to one side, talked. Just occasionally, I caught a flash of emotion, of frustration, all of it coming from Mum. But, like Dad, I was removed, locked in my own world of recollection. I was grateful for the act of memory, recalling what had been said, pinning down snatches of words. It meant I didn’t have to think. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe he was in a good place where the outside world couldn’t reach him. Or maybe he was in a nightmare from which there was no escape. And no one he could turn to for help. From time to time he pressed a hand against his chest as if to stem a pain, or stop something escaping.
‘We have a number of leads,’ said Moss, ‘and this video has definitely given us more to work on.’
Mum stopped talking. The silence was palpable. There are words that have more power than others, I realised. ‘Leads’ was one. It parted a curtain of despair through which we glimpsed a landscape called hope.
‘Yes?’ said Mum.
‘We have a team of tech guys, specialists, trying to trace the phone calls and also working on the recordings of the kidnapper’s voice.’
‘And?’
Gardner pulled at the knot of his tie as if it was constricting his breathing.
‘The voice is obviously being disguised by some kind of program or app, but the problem is there are so many of those available that it’s not really a productive line of enquiry.’
‘He said he used to work for a phone company,’ Mum said. ‘Have you followed up on that?’
‘Yes. But there are many providers and we don’t know when, or where in the country, he might have been employed. Of course, he could simply be lying, giving us false leads to tie up our time. But we’re working on it.’ He paused, undid the top button of his shirt, and pulled his tie down a few centimetres. ‘Our guys have come to a tentative conclusion about his gender, though, based on an analysis of speech patterns and vocabulary. The probability is the kidnapper is male, and educated, possibly to degree level.’
‘Probability?’ I said.
Gardner sighed. ‘This isn’t an exact science, Jamie,’ he said. ‘No guarantees, but that’s what they’re thinking.’
‘So,’ said Mum. ‘The probability is he’s male and he might have a degree. That’s great.’ She wasn’t even trying to hide the bitterness in her voice. ‘What does that leave? A hundred thousand suspects. Is that the probability?’
Moss interrupted.
‘That’s not all we’re working on, Ms Delaware,’ she said. ‘We’ve conducted many face-to-face interviews and we’re chasing down new leads. For example, three people in the supermarket car park remember a girl matching the description of Phoebe getting into a car with a middle-aged person.’
Mum tried to interrupt, but Gardner raised a hand.
‘You have to understand,’ he said, ‘witnesses are always unreliable. There’s nothing strange about a young girl getting into a vehicle in a supermarket car park. So they may not have identified your daughter at all. Nonetheless, it’s vital we chase this up.’
‘Did they get a car rego?’ asked Mum.
‘Not even close,’ said Gardner. ‘Remember. These are people putting shopping into their cars. Who notices vehicle regos in that situation?’
Mum went to interrupt again, but Gardner raised a finger this time.
‘However, two people remember the make of car and the colour. A green Commodore. Their descriptions generally agree. That means we can attemp
t to narrow down the year, which means we can make investigations regarding possible owners.’
‘What about the third witness?’ I asked.
‘Didn’t see the car,’ replied Gardner. ‘Just saw – thinks he might have seen – your sister in the company of a woman.’
‘A woman?’ said Mum. She ran a hand across her eyes and sighed. ‘Description?’
Gardner shook his head. ‘Middle-aged, possibly younger. Of average height or maybe above average height. Dark hair, or it could have been grey, long or it might have been shoulder length. Please understand, Ms Delaware. You catch a glimpse of someone in a supermarket car park. How reliable would your description be? If you knew it was going to be important you’d pay more attention. But you didn’t know. You’re putting shopping into the boot of your car. A day later you probably can’t remember what your own shopping looked like, let alone someone passing by.’
Mum mulled things over. She looked like she wanted to challenge the irresponsibility of someone not picking up crucial information, but couldn’t think of a counter to Gardner’s point.
‘How about hypnosis?’ she asked.
Gardner blinked and sagged a little. It occurred to me he probably hadn’t had much sleep either. At least, I hoped he hadn’t slept. He was clearly searching for a diplomatic response. Equally clearly, he was having difficulty finding it. In the end, Moss came to his rescue.
‘Hypnosis, despite what you might see on the television, is rarely successful, Ms Delaware. In fact, it often brings up things that never actually happened – trace memories from the unconscious, stray bits of imagination. Obviously, that confuses the investigation. Not to mention that any evidence gathered from hypnosis is not admissible in court because of its unreliability.’
Mum wanted to argue the toss. I could see it in the set of her mouth and the way her shoulders straightened. I thought it best to head this off.
‘So how do we trace the car?’ I said.
The look Gardner gave me was tinged with gratitude. ‘Legwork, Jamie,’ he replied. ‘Old-fashioned legwork. We go through the vehicle registration records and draw up a list of cars in the immediate area that fit the description. Then we send out officers to interview the owners, find out where they were at the time Phoebe went missing . . .’
‘What’s to stop them lying?’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ said Gardner. ‘And obviously the kidnapper, should we interview him, would do just that. But we have considerable experience in dealing with suspects and witnesses. Believe me, none of us will rest until we find your sister.’
Moss took over.
‘And this video is another lead, possibly a number of leads. The dress that Phoebe’s wearing, for example. The suspect clearly bought it and it’s certainly distinctive. We’ll find out who manufactures those dresses and get a list of retailers who stock them, locally and nationally. Then, as Detective Inspector Gardner mentioned, it’s a matter of legwork, checking invoices at retailers, interviewing shop owners. The same goes for the newspaper – some retailers print their names on the papers and we’ll have an expert examine the video to see if we can see it. It’s even possible that we might be able to find out the camera or, more likely, the phone that took the footage. That gives us another line of enquiry.’
Gardner stood.
‘It’s my experience,’ he said,‘that most breaks in these situations come from leads like the ones we’re pursuing. It’s not glamorous, but that’s not important, is it?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And if you’ll excuse us, we’d better get back to the station. The sooner we get this video analysed, the better.’
I took them to the front door. Moss stopped just outside and turned back to face me.
‘By the way,’ she said. ‘Tell your parents and your sister that we’ve been in touch with Summerlee’s bank and that getting the cash won’t be a problem. They’ll require as much notice as possible but can get it in a few hours if necessary. That’s not information you should pass on to the kidnapper, obviously.’ I nodded. ‘If he rings to discuss the transfer of the ransom,’ she continued, ‘ask him to call back in a few hours, while you find out when the money’s available. Then call us straight away, obviously.’
‘Of course,’ I said. She turned to go. ‘Oh, by the way,’ I added. ‘Here’s the list of people I think might have a motive to do this.’ I’d written down just two names in the end – Mr Monkhouse and Ms Abbott. I didn’t think it was politic to put down ‘and every police officer involved in this case.’ She put the slip of paper into her pocket without looking at it.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Your mum rang in her list.’ Moss smiled. ‘Summerlee told me it would be easier to make a list of people who didn’t wish her harm. In the end, hers came to five pages.’
I wondered if my name was on it or if I was the only one who was so fucked in the head they’d seriously considered other family members. I nodded.
‘How’s it going in there, Jamie?’ She inclined her head towards the house.
I shrugged. ‘We’re enduring,’ I replied. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll know the extent of the damage until this is all over. But, for the time being, we’re functioning. Nothing more.’
She shook my hand. Her grip was firm. Then she joined Gardner, who had already started their car. I watched as they drove off. The sound of tyres on gravel faded and the world was quiet. Night had drawn in. How long had I slept? I glanced at my watch. Eight-thirty. I stood on the doorstep for ten minutes, listening to the silence and taking deep breaths, like I was trying to purge some kind of infection. It wasn’t so much that the night was clear and fresh and a good place to be, though it was. I was avoiding the world behind our closed door.
That was muddied, stale and a bad place to be.
Mum drove to the fish and chip shop at nine o’clock. No one felt like eating, but it gave her something to do. She put the greaseproof paper parcel on the kitchen table so we could help ourselves. I tried a piece of fish; it was oily and the batter was stodgy, but I forced it down. Mum and Dad didn’t touch anything. We didn’t speak.
No one acknowledged it, but we were all waiting for the silence to be broken by the trill of an incoming call. I kept the phone balanced in my palm. Delicately, like it was dangerous and could explode at any moment. I suppose that wasn’t far from the truth.
Minutes crawled by and turned into hours. I found myself thinking about Summerlee. Where was she, and what was she doing? I didn’t ask Mum, because silence had become so ingrained that it was almost impossible to disturb it. I wanted to talk to my older sister. I was tired of us all living in our own heads, separated by pain rather than united by it. And I knew that Summer, for all her obvious faults, her little cruelties and self-absorption, loved Phoebe and would be in her own private hell. My family. Islands of suffering and not a bridge in sight. Maybe all families are like that.
It was gone eleven when the walls in the front room became washed in waves of light. I blinked and for a moment couldn’t understand their source. Then I heard the sounds of car engines, the slamming of doors, the murmur of voices. Mum moved to the curtains and peered through a gap. One side of her face lit up, the other plunged into shadow. Dad had stood and he glanced at me. I shrugged. Then there was the sound of footsteps on gravel, followed immediately by a hammering on the front door.
At almost the same moment, every phone in our house rang. I looked down at mine, still resting on my palm, and for a moment or two, didn’t understand what it was.
CHAPTER 20
Mum was raising her mobile to her ear, Dad was moving towards the landline. I went into the kitchen. Caller unknown.
‘Hello?’
‘Is this Jamie Delaware?’ A woman’s voice. It threw me.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Yvonne Murrell from The Clarion. I wonder if it would be possible to talk to you about your sister’s disappearance . . .’
I hung up. The hammering on the front door intensified. My phone started ringing
again. I saw Mum finish her call with a jab to the screen that threatened to crack the glass. Dad was placing the landline back into its cradle, but it rang again immediately. I went back to the kitchen and swiped the icon on my phone.
‘Jamie, I just need a statement from you . . .’
‘Don’t call this number again,’ I said. ‘Please.’ I hung up, but almost immediately it rang once more. I moved a few paces closer to out-and-out terror. How could I not answer my phone? Even if there was only a one per cent chance it was the call we were waiting for? I put it into my pocket but its vibration against my leg was indistinguishable from agony.
Then I heard voices from the front room. Mum had flung open the door and admitted a blaze of light. I caught sight of a group of people but they were silhouettes against a backdrop of car headlights. A dozen voices were speaking at once. I went to join her.
‘Mrs Delaware. I’m sorry to disturb you but . . .’
‘Do you have a statement to make, Mrs Delaware . . .?’
‘Jamie, is there any news of your sister . . .?’
‘Ms Delaware, have you heard from the kidnapper yet . . .?’
Mum and I stood shoulder to shoulder, too stunned to say anything, washed in light and a babble of words. My phone continued to ring. Finally, Mum raised her arms and the voices immediately stopped. I caught a glimpse of microphones being thrust forward. A few flashes popped and Mum flinched as if wounded.
‘I have nothing to say,’ said Mum. ‘There is no news. But I would ask you to give us privacy. As you can imagine, this is a difficult time.’ I was staggered by her understatement and also impressed at her self-control. I’d expected her to explode like one of those flashes. ‘In particular,’ she continued, ‘I would ask you please, do not ring our phone numbers. When we’re ready to make a statement then we will do so through the police. Thank you.’
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